,„<*;  jr 


LION E  L  ! ^JO S AP HARE 


LIBRARY 

OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

4 

Class    • 


TURQUOISE    AND    IRON 


LIONEL  JOSAPHARE 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

A.    M.    ROBERTSON 

1902 


COPYRIGHT,   1901 
A.   M.    ROBERTSON 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 


The  Murdoch  Press 
San  Francisco 


TURQUOISE  AND  IRON 

The  innocently  azure  skies  allure. 
Like  turquoise  hopes  above  an  iron  world. 

In  happy  passion  or  in  mood  obscure, 

The  innocently  azure  skies  allure. 

But,  oh,  when  toiling  toward  a  vision  pure, 
The  beaten  body  to  the  earth  is  hurled, 

The  innocently  azure  skies  allure, 
Like  turquoise  hopes  above  an  iron  world. 


31 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  WINGED   HEART II 

THE  STATUE 35 

THE  ENCHANTED  NIGHT 49 

THE  SPLENDID    EARTH 63 

YEARS 73 

THE   LIPS   OF  EVOLUTION 79 

FAITH 8l 

HALF-PAST  ELEVEN 85 

BALLADE  OF  THE  NATURAL  HEART 86 

ONE  OF  THE  WICKED ,    .  .  .  88 

MADELINE 9O 

THE  SUICIDE 91 

METEMPSYCHOSIS 92 

THE  HEART'S  ELECTION 93 

HER  BEAUTY 94 

SORROW 95 

TO  A  WITTY  LADY 96 

THE   FLEETING   DEER 97 

THE   INTRUDING  MEMORY 98 

GUILTLESS 99 

TO  MY  INK-WELL IOO 

TO  A  CERTAIN  POET IOI 

THE   FABLE IO2 

TO   THEE 103 


THE    WINGED    HEART 


THE    WINGED    HEART 

HAII,,  thou,  my  far-flying  heart, 

That,  with  rapid  wings  apart, 

Upward,  without  cause  or  care, 
Beatest  the  last  possible  desires  of  everlasting  air. 

Hail,  thou,  wildly  winging  heart, 
Wheresoever,  'midst  the  stars  or  wet  by  falling  clouds, 
thou  art. 

Downward  to  my  vacant  breast, 

Come,,  and  know  me  for  thy  nest. 

Folded  be  thy  wings  and  dreams,   and  long  be  thy 
unruffled  rest. 


Softly  fare  thou,  bleeding  ace ; 
Turn,  O,  turn  the  somber  lace 
Of  thy  wings,  thine  aching  wings, 
From   the   hues   and   heights   of   Heaven   and    from 

Heaven's  cloudy  springs. 
Slant  away  from  that  blue  space, 
And   the   complicated   highway   to   the   leaden   earth 

retrace. 

Many  a  heart  of  mickle  worth, 
Through  the  firmamental  girth 

Pierces,  breaks  a  wing  'gainst  Heaven's  gate  and  flut 
ters  back  to  earth. 


12 


It  was  when  the  tinctured  rose 
'Gan  unfurl  its  folios 
And  the  earth  was  pinkly  laden, 
Was  enamored  and  enameled  with  the  petals,  that  a 

maiden 

Stepped  aworld  and  did  compose 
Weird  laments  and  fancy  lyrics  of  the  grief  that  over 
flows. 

She  has  worn  the  golden  crown; 
She  has  pulled  the  dim  veil  down ; 
She  has  taken  sighs  from  other  hearts  and  wove  them 
in  her  gown. 


How  essential  were  her  ways! 
How  devout,  how  true  her  gaze — 
She  whom  bygones  now  devour, 
She  who  smiled  when  sad  and  did  relinquish  every 

pleasant  hour 

With  her  lips  glad  in  their  praise 
And  her  white  hand  slipping  slowly,  sadly  out  of  yes 
terday's. 

Over  her,  O  heart-bruised  heart, 
With  thy  oozing  wounds  apart, 

Spread  thy  crumpled,  humbled  wings  and  tell  the  white 
face  what  thou  art. 


flfllmgeto 


She  has  sailed  from  earthly  piers — 

She,  the  maid  of  shrewdest  fears, 

She,  the  frailest,  palest  virgin, 

She,  of  all,  the  maiden  only  that  was  thy  delightful 
surgeon, 

Healing  all  thy  wounds  and  sears; 
Pain  departed  then  as  now  the  consolation  disappears. 

Maiden,  mountain,  storm  and  star 

Death  unmakes,  but  cannot  mar 

My  heart's  memory  of  this  maid  resplendent  as  a  silver 
bar. 


Kisses  were  our  marriage  feast; 

Love,  our  witness ;  God,  our  priest. 

By  the  fervid  exultation 
Of  our  answers  understood  we  the  divine  interrogation. 

Ah,  the  pain  of  love  released! 

She,  for  yielding  woman's  bounty,  took  my  kisses  and 
deceased. 

Nuptials  thus  by  Heaven  indorsed ; 

By  decree  of  Heaven  divorced, 

She  is  Heaven-cursed,  they  say,  and  flown  remote, 
alone,  remorsed. 


16 


And  the  naked  babe  unled 
Up  the  stair  of  Heaven  can  tread. 
But  upon  that  sacred  way 
Would  the  mourning  mother  falter  ?    Would  she  mount 

or  drop  astray? 

Could  she  touch  that  gateway  dread? 
Pleading  to  the  awful  Judge,  "  God,  I  have  suffered ;  I 

have  bled." 

Could  she,  having  trod  the  way? 
Could  she  even  find  the  way — 

From  those  weighty  shadows  rise  and  lift  her  heart 
along  the  way? 


Vile  heart,  seek  her  out  below, 

Where,  in  some  bleak  portico, 

Wails  she  and  the  darkness  clips, 
Beauteous  as  when  in  lifetime  all  the  sun  shone  on  her 
lips. 

Pierce  down  to  the  blackest  flow— ' 
To  the  curling  of  the  fogs  of  inextinguishable  woe. 

Thou  wilt  find  her  own  heart  riven 

And  with  iron  sorrows  driven — 
Iron  nails  of  iron  sorrow  by  my  hand  to  her  heart  given. 


18 


Thou  wilt  know  her  by  the  grieving 
Of  her  martyred  eyes  retrieving 
All  the  petals  of  her  sorrows ; 
Yearning  over  yesterdays  and  mourning  mutely  o'er 

tomorrows. 

And  a  smile  her  face  receiving 
Will  be  sunken  in  those  sorrows  that  are  in  her  bosom 

heaving, 

Like  a  sunbeam  on  the  ocean, 
Pleasing  it  with  gilded  motion, 

While  the  shadow- jungles  under  are  as  black  as  Hell's 
devotion. 


l^eart 


Like  a  battle  long  ago, 
Pale  blue  shadows  on  the  snow 
Stagger,  and  the  dim  brigade 
Soon  are  blackened  shadows  only  on  the  snows  of  azure 

laid. 

Many  deaths  the  shadows  know, 
Rung  out  by  the  bells  of  churches  and  by  sorrow  sobs 

below. 

Bells,  shake  out  your  iron  flowers, 
Rubbing,  chiming  from  the  towers. 
Let  your  black,  melodious  blossoms  float  about  these 
dismal  bowers. 


20 


l?c art 


No,  heart,  start  not  for  below. 
O  heart,  up  to  Heaven  go. 
As  the  sacred  zephyrs  go, 
Take  thy  course  and  thy  attainment ;   start  not  for  the 

gloom  below.  , 

Through  the  turquoise  Heaven  go. 
Follow  not  with   rushing  dim   winds  to  the  buried 

caves  below. 

Sigh  with  sigh  and  woe  by  woe, 
With  thy  pale  companion  go. 

Mingle  with  seraphic  music,  not  with  rumblings  from 
below. 


21 


With  each  airy  Alp  accrued, 

Summit  of  thy  strength  renewed; 

Fearing  that  thy  flight  is  ending, 
In  the  ashen,  fading  distance,  still  assailing,  still  as 
cending, 

Now  the  feeble  winds  elude. 
Glory  in  the  joy  of  thy  accumulated  altitude. 

Fadeless  are  those  holy  sights ; 

Shining  are  the  angel  flights ; 
Gleaming  are  the  pearly  cupolas  and  castellated  heights. 


22 


O'er  that  crystal  palisade, 
Now  thy  lighted  wings  persuade; 
Touch  the  flashes  of  the  domes 
Of  that  grand  and  gilded  city  flashing  with  angelic 

homes. 

Look  for  her  once  was  a  maid : 
Gaze  at  every  blue-eyed  face  among  the  silver  wings 

arrayed. 

Balanced  be  thy  hearty  beam 
As,  beyond  that  realm  supreme. 
Thou  declinest,  for  its  frescoes  are  the  tarnish  of  a 
dream. 


leatt 


Yet,  like  falcon,  ere  he  swoops, 

Mount  above  the  shining  groups, 

And  thy  valiant  blood  reveal — 

Plunge  as  if  thy  weight  were  oaken  and  thy  wings  were 
strips  of  steel. 

Where  the  western  heaven  droops, 
Dive  diagonally  hellward,  past  the  sailing  of  the  sloops, 

Past  the  shadow  winds  unfurled, 

Where  the  faulty  souls  are  hurled, 
To  the  basal  everglades  beneath  the  casters  of  the 
world. 


24 


Outside,  on  the  frozen  sod, 
Falls  the  snow,  where  she  once  trod. 
Inside,  gazing  o'er  the  sea, 
Sit   I,   and   the   freezing  snowflakes   pelt   my   frozen 

memory, 

And  I  think  it  oddly  odd 
That  where  she  and  I  delighted,  I  without  her  still 

should  plod. 

And  these  frozen  pains  are  more 
Than  my  spirit  ever  bore ; 

Still  the  lapping,  lapping  waters  are  forever  on  the 
shore. 


Still  the  living,  living  soul 

Pines  within  its  human  hole. 

And,  without  the  boldened  knife, 
Sits  that  hideous,  tortured  thing,  that  tortured  cripple, 
human  life. 

T  is  a  serpent's  fangy  jole, 
And  the  foldings  of  its  tail  still  in  the  cursed  future  roll. 

And  here  seek  I  to  explain 

Why  my  haunted  crisscross  brain 
In  this  manor  should  be  dwelling  while  my  heart  flies 
in  the  rain. 


26 


Why  postpone  the  deathly  end, 

That  must  come?    Or  why  offend 

That  sweet  maid  for  vile  tomorrows? 
Why  sit  'midst  this  doleful,  dirgeful  consultation  of 
my  sorrows? 

Why  not  with  immortals  blend, 

Challenge  Heaven  with  the  deed  and  on  the  wings  of 
death  extend — 

To  that  black  and  purple  reef 

Where  repineth  my  heart's  chief, 
Where  her  violet  apparel  is  the  vapor  of  her  grief. 


l?f art 


Heart,  thou  weary-winged  wight, 

Regulate  thy  wreathy  flight, 

Where  the  lowest  spirits  crawl — 
Crouch   and   crawl   the   humblest   shadows,    in   their 
creepholes  by  the  wall. 

Draw  thy  dingy  wings  tonight 
Over  every  cave  and  distance  in  the  tenor  of  thy  might. 

And,  within  a  saintly  glow, 

Where  the  ranting  horrors  go, 
In  a  mist  of  palest  purple  find  the  partner  of  my  woe. 


28 


Where  the  falling  stars  recover 
Breath,  like  any  fallen  lover, 
Where  the  hellish  doors  are  slammed — 
There,  along  the  dismal  bottoms,  drag  the  anchors  of 

the  damned. 

But,  there  also  angels  hover; 
As  in  Heaven  once  they  shone,  shine  about  her  and 

above  her. 

You  will  know  her  by  the  care 
Of  these  angels  in  the  air. 

They  have  come  to,  her  all  holy,  and  her  exile  they 
will  share. 


fflllfnged 


Soft,  I  hear  the  angels  speaking- 
Fires  the  blackened  sky  are  streaking; 
There  's  a  death-wreath  on  my  floor. 

Death  is  with  his  reckless  knuckles  rattling  on  my 

lockless  door. 
Ghosts  their  ghastly  mates  are  seeking. 

Frantic  with  their  messages,  are  wires  from  Heaven 

windily  shrieking. 
Death*  is  dunning  me  and  knows 
What  a  mortal  always  owes. 

I  submit  my  soul  to  glory  and  my  castle  to  the  snows. 


Heart,  ere  yet  the  morning  ray 

Shouts  another  hateful  day, 

Take  me  on  my  last  career. 
For  your  coming  I  am  waiting  but  not  hesitating  here. 

Soon  your  winging  ends  for  aye ; 

Lift,  heart,  lift,  ah  lift  thy  lagging  plumes  and  show  thy 
breast  the  way. 

To  that  sunless  haunted  shore 

Once  again  your  strength  implore; 
Think  of  her  there  and,  as  fast  as  I  can  follow,  fly 
before. 


THE    STATUE 


THE   STATUE 
I.    DISSATISFACTION 

HACKED  into  human  shape,  the  shapely  stone 
Was  now  a  woman,  rigid,  cold  and  bright. 

In  loveliness  alone, 

There  lived  my  blows  in  white ; 
There  stood  the  noble  work  to  beauty  worn 
By  the  black  chisel  out  of  iron  born ; 
Stood  there,  ah,  stood  there  once,  in  marble  grace, 
Until,  with  eyes  to  grand  perfection  sworn, 
I  found  a  vague  defect  upon  the  face. 

And  scarcely  was  the  foam 
Of  inspiration  dry  upon  my  lips, 

Began  my  hands  to  roam 

On  more  ecstatic  trips 
About  that  quarried  woman,  who  should  seem, 

When  all  should  have  been  done, 

The  thought  with  which  she  was  begun, — 
Immortal  product  of  a  mortal's  dream, 


35 


Statue 


To  be  admired 
By  men  inspired, 
By  men  of  art  required, 
By  men  of  Heaven  hired 
To  teach  the  soul  to  speak. 
Then  lifted  I  my  human  hands,  to  soothe 

Or  save  or  seek 
A  more  fanatic  beauty  on  the  cheek 

Of  her  so  smooth — 
An  indefinable  ideal  define, 

And  make  her  seem  divine. 

II.    THE  GREATER  EFFORT 
At  once  the  bruising  workmanship  renewing, 
Here  I  a  turning  took,  a  slow  curve  bended. 
With  vim,  the  marble-meated  virgin  hewing, 

Full  wistfully  I  blended— 

Proudly  did  glorify — 
What  was  a  smile  with  what  (if  stone  could  breathe) 

Would  have  been  thought  a  sigh. 
High  did  my  steamy  inspiration  seethe 

And  low  fell  I: 
A  rap,  a  scrape,  a  spark,  a  flint— O,  curses ! 


fetatttc 


That  iron  should  be  sharp  and  beauty  soft ! 
My  heart  squeezed  gloomily ;  my  hopes,  in  hearses, 
Were  dragged,  oh,  not  aloft. 

III.    DESTRUCTION 

That  lily-limbed  embodiment  of  balms, 
How  it  arose  of  rock,  so  slow  in  making, 
Implored  with  fury,  solemnized  with  psalms, 

And  yet  so  fast  in  breaking  I 
Once  more  I  malleted  the  stone  to  form 

Without  a  flaw ; 

But  smaller  now  within  a  whitened  storm 
Of  chips,  that  image  took  the  chisel's  law. 
And  then  awhile  subliming  its  perfection, 

I  fractured  it  again. 
Again  I  wrought  the  image's  correction, 

And  cracked  it  then. 
Another  smaller  effigy  then  froze 

Within  the  flinty  snows, 
Tottered,  survived  the  torment  of  my  blows, 

And  lovely  was  as  when 
Its  larger  beauty  on  my  sight  arose. 


37 


fetatue 


But  slighter,  shorter,  frailer  'neath  my  knock, 
Still  beautiful,  but  still  with  some  new  fault, 
Appeared  that  cold,  incorrigible  rock 

My  knife  could  not  exalt. 
Erelong  my  sweating  fancy  found  my  lips 
Bemoaning  the  remaining  stock, 
A  fund  of  rubbish,  wanton  mess  of  chips 

In  the  infernal  gloom: 
There  was  no  room 

Behind  the  broken  lock. 

IV.    THE  SONG 
Then  she  who  was  the  pattern  of  that  stone 

Came  forth  and  spake 
To  me  whose  grisly,  greedy  sorrow,  thrown 
Upon  the  floor,  lay  there  in  beauty's  sake. 
Sweet  were  her  words,  and  when  those  words  went 

wrong, 

Sweetly  her  voice  consoled  me  with  a  song. 
Her  notes  were  like  the  liquid  moonlight  there 

Upon  my  woe, 

Or  like  a  flock  of  holy  doves  that  bear 
Their  whiteness  to  and  fro. 


Statue 


Soft  as  from  dell  remote 
The  consolation  from  her  cordial  throat !  — 
The  vocal  joy  of  multiple  rejoicing, 
The  voluble  delight  of  rapid  voicing. 

Up,  up  the  romping  scale 

The  choral  notes  prevail 
•In  rivers  of  immaculate  libation, 
In  channels  of  melodious  undulation. 
The  room  and  I,  with  her  own  voice  propelled, 

Through  earth  and  air  extended ; 
And  like  a  boat  with  onward  prow  unquelled, 

Glided  when  she  had  ended. 

V.    CONSCIENCE 

On,  on,  on,  on,  thou  spectral  touch  of  song ! 

That  grievous  tune  prolong; 
Prolong  thy  dull,  deluding  arms, 
That  give  their  opium  and  white  illusions. 
No ;  no ;  we  pause,  and  thy  fallacious  charms 
Hold  me  no  more  within  their  mock  seclusions. 


39 


Statue 


Away !    Awake ! 

No  more  that  wistful,  dreamy  sing-song  shake  ; 
No  more  of  that  false-eyed,  adulterous  art ; 
No  more  the  poppy,  musk  and  incense  warm 

From  thy  exhaling  swarm 
Of  ravishments  to  lull  me  and  impart 
This  honeysuckle  fragrance  to  the  veins 

Entwined  about  my  heart. 
O,  cease,  thou ;  I  would  rather  bear  my  pains ; 
Thy  solace  is  another  form  of  grieving. 
A  finer  anguish  dims  thy  finer  strains ; 

And  music  is  deceiving. 
O,  come  no  more  with  philterous  relieving, 
For  thou,  like  steamy  air  on  hot-house  flowers — 
For  thou,  like  amber  rains  and  scented  showers — 
For  thou,  like  infant  in  the  milky  bowers 

Of  tender  mother-breast, 
Art  rich  in  something  not  quite  manifest. 


40 


s 

Statue 


O,  thou  canst  warm  our  love  to  its  confessing ; 
And  thou  canst  lift  the  soul  that  is  unblessed ; 

But  canst  not  give  a  blessing 
That  will  forever  keep  the  heart  at  rest, 
Untaunted  with  thy  all-too-short  caressing, 

VI.    REGRET 

And  then  my  patience  burst, 

As  then  my  blood  reversed, 
Encountering  the  fainting  brain  pell-mell : 

I  groped  as  one  accursed — 
From  Heaven  flung  to  Hell  and  then  by  Hell 

Damned  lower  still, 
For  letting  sorrow  listen  to  that  knell, 

That  woman's  thrill, 

When  I  had  battered  beauty  to  the  ground 
And  then,  to  reconcile  the  deed  so  ill, 

Had  hearkened  to  a  sound. 
As  if  a  song  could  trill  divine  absolving 

And  the  forgiveness  mild 
To  him,  who  in  a  raving  art  revolving, 

Murdered  his  chisel's  child. 

Stained  with  regret,  and  wild, 

My  self  myself  reviled. 

41 


And  thus  bereft, 

And  suffering  in  every  wayward  cleft 
Of  thought  and  gloom, 
I  left  the  room. 

VII.    THE  CATHEDRAL,  ORGAN 

The  huge  cathedral  was  at  prayer  that  night ; 
The  sacred  ceiling  spoke  of  Heaven's  might. 

Rained  on  with  light, 
Devoutly  down  the  velvet-padded  aisle, 

Assailed  with  terrors  vile, 
That  flapped  their  flimsy  wings  in  awkward  flight 

For  many  a  crowded  mile, 
I  strode,  and,  near  the  organ,  sat  contrite. 
Another  caliber  of  music  shot 
Upon  my  melody-tormented  ears, 
Appalled  me  deeply  where  the  song  had  not 

And  seemed  to  shake  the  tears. 
Cohorts  of  chords  from  some  abysm  profound, 

The  holy  air  besfrid. 

Then  as  if  backward  bid, 
Terrific  tubes  of  smashing  music  did 

Infest  the  air  with  sound. 

42 


Statue 


Shout,  shriek,  stop  and  advance  and  upward,  ho ; 

Rear  notes  the  fore  did  shove, 

And  all  were  souls  escaped  below 

To  shout  the  joy  above. 
Then  suddenly  demoralized,  they  fell 

All  disarrayed, 
With  little  stops  and  many  a  frightened  yell, 

As  if  they  were  afraid. 
But  all  these  warrior  notes  returned  with  whom 

Could  in  their  ranks  find  room; 
All  had  survived  complete  annihilations. 
Born  with  a  burst  a  breath  before  their  doom, 
Came  out  with  steel  and  gold,  strength,  pomp  and 
plume, 

And  decked  with  vines  of  variations. 

Music  is  joy; 

A  single  note  is  joy,  because  it  lives 
On  air  that  one  proud  living  moment  gives : 

A  moment  will  destroy. 


43 


Statue 


VIII.    THE  INVISIBLE  IDEAL 

Once  more  away ! 

No  more,  with  gaudy  sound,  my  soul  betray ; 
No  sound  shall  kiss  or  kill  my  sin  today. 

My  obstinate  regret 

Still  does  desire  to  fret. 
Music  with  it  provokes  a  gentle  fray 

That  makes  the  soul  forget. 
It  tells  the  soul  that  sorrow  is  no  debt ; 
With  sound  for  prayer,  the  soul  forgets  to  pray. 
Thereat,  again  I  found  myself  at  home ; 

The  singer  sang  no  more, 
But  told  me  not  to  let  my  fancy  roam 

Beyond  the  human  door. 
She  told  me  Heaven  has  no  bluer  skies, 

No  gladder  golden  floor, 
Than  I  may  see  with  still  my  earthly  eyes, 

And  might  have  seen  before. 

But  oh,  while  we  are  learning 

The  meaning  of  our  yearning, 
Who  has  not  wept  while  Heaven  did  refute 
His  statue's  claim  to  godly  attribute? 


44 


Statue 


Since  not  with  entire  godliness 

Did  God  the  human  visage  knock, 

Can  human  hammers,  thinking  to  excess, 

Inscribe  upon  a  rock 
Divinity  which  they  do  not  possess 
Within  their  own  diviner  God-made  stock  ? 

IX.     THE  Kiss 

Oh,  no, — she  said,  she  who  had  lately  sung — 
With  fertilizing  grief  thou  art  combined, 

And  thence  thy  vision  sprung. 
With  too  much  world  our  faces  are  unkind ; 
Art  is  the  countenance  of  a  lovely  mind. 
And  thy  courageous  mind  hath  wildly  hung 
To  Heaven's  ever-swinging  chandelier. 
But  now  from  it  are  thy  poor  fingers  wrung, 

And  thou  art  here. 
Yet  be  not  vexed  nor  lonely  in  thy  heart : 


45 


Statue 


Thy  soul  is  not  the  mutilated  stone ; 
Stronger  than  it  and  statelier  thou  art; 
Thy  efforts  grander  than  a  world  of  art. 

Thou  dost  not  grieve  alone. 
With  that,  she  kissed  me,  and  her  lips  expressed 
A  thrill  of  life  with  love  and  beauty  blessed. 

More  queenly  than  all  art 
Beseeched  by  us  of  incense-bearing  heart — 
More  true  than  melody  from  holy  throat — 
More  holy  than  the  organ's  aching  note — 

Sweeter  than  musky  roses — 
More  sweet  than  the  dew  that  on  them  reposes — 
Sweeter  by  far  than  the  drop  that  escapes 

Out  of  a  bale  of  roses — 

More  sweet  than  summer  shades  or  pulp  of  grapes — 
Sweet  past  the  sweetness  of  reward  of  toil 
At  evening  hour  when  limbs  and  cares  uncoil — 
Sweeter  than  stillness  when  sweet  airs  embay 
The  zephyrs  that  from  thinking  souls  take  way — 
Sweeter  and  greater  than  the  praise  of  men — 
Greater  and  sweeter  than  the  grief's  uplifting  when 
The  grief  is  tender,  are — come,  love,  thy  lips  again. 


46 


THE  ENCHANTED   NIGHT 


THE  ENCHANTED  NIGHT 

BRING  these  things  to  me : 
Opals  and  tuberoses. 

For  we  cannot  flee 

From  the  evil  that  the  villain  gem  encloses 
Nor  the  life-exhausting  odors  that  the  flower  composes. 

Purple,  crimson  flowers 

Tell  of  nimble  joys 
In  celestial  bowers — 

Fields  and  grand  abodes  inhabited  by  boys, 
Who,  with  darling  folly,  dance  among  their  changing 
toys. 

Flowers  falsely  painted ! 
Wanton  is  their  dress ; 

Lewdly  are  they  tainted. 
For,  the  pretty  happiness  which  they  profess 
Is  a  circumstance  of  glory  I  do  not  possess. 


49 


Bring  me,  sitting  lonely, 
Flowers  that  like  souls 
Live  by  moonlight  only, 
Lifting  moonlit  faces  out  of  coffin-holes, 
Where  the  air  with  hurting  knells  and  ghastly  odor 
tolls., 

For  tonight  I  sicken, 
Since  I  am  alone; 
And  my  pulses  thicken 

When  I  tell  my  Sorrow  you  are  not  my  own : 
You,  my  pale  and  golden  queen,  are  absent  from  my 
throne. 

Come  tonight,  for  you 

May  not  keep  me  long. 
Years  are  short  and  few : 

As  we  vaguely  twist  them,  Fate  may  tie  them  wrong. 
Or  the  brow-bound  singer,  pausing,  may  forget  his 
song. 


(Enc&anttd 


When  you  sit  compiling 

Memories  and  tears, 
You  may  ask  one  smiling 

Moment  from  the  snowfall  of  the  deep-laid  years, 
Or  one  song  request  from  Time  when  Time  no  longer 
hears. 

Come,  then,  live  this  year. 

In  it  we  shall  crush 
All  that  we  revere. 

While  the  cheek  of  Life  is  not  too  dry  to  blush, 
Let  our  blushes  warm  the  summer  till   our  Time  says 
"  hush !  " 

We  shall  use  them  all, 

All  these,  rich  years  hence ; 
But  like  opal  small, 

They  will  flash,  when  squeezed  with  love  and  vehe 
mence, 

To  one  youthful  year,  one  gem  of  lifelong  recompense. 


(Encjanttd 


In  this  gem  of  time, 
We  shall  live  excess; 

And  this  year  sublime, 
Like  a  hand  of  meek  and  tender  holiness, 
Will  be  laid  on  other  years  as  one  year's  long  caress. 

In  the  bath  of  dawn, 

Let  our  loves  immerse — 
Up  and  down  and  drawn 

Crosswise  each  way  through  the  clanging  universe — 
While  the  good  ones  bless  and  while  opposing  sinners 
curse. 

Love  me  sometimes  dimly, 

As  in  twilight's  peace. 
Love  me  often  grimly, 

As  when  Honor  frowns  or  feasting  friends  decrease. 
Love  my  sorrows  too ;   and  love  me  though  my  love 
should  cease. 


'    Or  TKt. 


Sometimes  Pleasure  works 
Over  ugly  metals. 

Sometimes  comfort  lurks 

Where  but  few  can  find  it.    So  shall  we  pick  nettles 
Sometimes,  while  near  by,  a  disregarded  rose  unpetals. 

Clutch  me  in  your  love 
When  the  vulture's  aim, 

In  the  airs  above, 

With  its  frenzy  greater  than  its  feathered  frame, 
Like  a  moth,  unwittingly  attacks  the  noonday  flame. 

And  forget  me  not 

When  the  night-birds  fly 
Through  the  haunted  grot, 
When  the  satin  moon  is  in  the  sapphire  sky, 
And  the  nightingale  makes  Heaven's  waiting  harps 
reply. 


53 


(Encfianttd 


With  your  perfume-sated, 

Carnal  lips  apart — 
Sweet,  ensanguinated 

Lips — what  nymphlike  rose's  deeply  bleeding  heart 
Have  you  kissed  and  kept  the  crimson  for  a  worthier 
art? 

As  the  spear-and-shielded 

Pagan  loves  his  mate, 
As  love-psalms  are  wielded 

From  the  trembling  throats  of  maids  immaculate, 
I  would  love  and  give  both  loves  a  wealth  of  equal 
weight. 

Be  the  weak  deer's  throat 
For  my  tiger  jaws. 

In  my  great  arms  float 
As  on  high-tide  rivers  flutter  little  straws. 
Be  the  fainting  culprit  in  my  unrelenting  laws. 


54 


(Encfianted 


Be  a  tuberose  pale, 

Deathlike  but  not  dead. 

Odors  chaste  exhale — 

Odors  that,  with  sweetest  poisons,  rock  the  head. 
Yes ;  to  me  your  fragrant  neck  is  like  a  flower-bed. 

O,  that  odor  sending 
Out  the  soul  of  flowers ! 

I  voluptuous,  bending 

Over  it,  remain  with  sense  unfilled  for  hours ; 
And  that  fragile  odor  my  poor  frenzy  fain  devours. 

Kneel  with  me  low  kneeling 
In  my  robes  of  prayer. 

Hear  me  in  the  pealing 
Of  the  sacred  bells  in  the  incarnate  air. 
Love  me  in  the  spirit-wounds  tormented  by  Despair. 


55 


See  me  in  earth's  mud 
And  the  crystal  skies. 

Love  me  when  my  blood 
Lavishes  itself  and  chokes  the  timid  sighs 
Of  my  pallid  conscience  when  my  pallid  conscience  dies. 

There  are  things  I  dream 
That  I  dare  not  live ; 

Deeds  I  would  redeem 

From  these  visions.    But  what  can  repentance  give 
To  the  mind  that  daily  grows  to  dreams  more  sensitive. 

Sacredly  your  gleaming 
Topaz  hair  today 

Came  to  me  here  dreaming, 

Lit  the  ceilings  of  my  dreams  and  passed  away — 
Passed  that  weird  illumination  of  a  weird  survey. 


(Encljanteti 


When  the  blue-edged  cloud 

Fades  in  sky-blue  fires, 
Summer  sings  out  loud — 

When,  through  open  pores,  the  scarlet  rose  perspires, 
You  will  find  me  breathing  with  the  summer's  dull 
desires. 

Bow  your  head  and  enter 
The  invisible  doors. 

Breathe  with  me  the  center 

Of  the  gilded  summer.    Tread  the  love-worn  floors. 
See  the  golden  happiness  crushed  from  its  earthy  ores. 

Dance  with  tiptoe  Pleasures. 
Excellently  tread 

Fairy-chanted  measures. 

Wake  the  morning-glory ;  put  the  moon  to  bed. 
Spill  the  yellow  powder  from  the  poppy's  drowsy  head. 


57 


CEncfjanteli 


O,  that  we  could  name 
What  we  cannot  see ! 

O,  to  put  the  blame 

On  some  evil,  slipping,  incompleted  key 
That  unlocks  our  pleasure  at  the  next  to  last  degree. 

Something  ever  slips 

From  the  well-read  story ; 

Something's  damning  lips 

And  its  limbs,  with  frost  of  human  hopes  made  hoary, 
Lie  between  and  let  no  man  lie  close  enough  to  glory. 


Therefore,  dance  no  more, 

Queer-souled  queen,  nor  smile, 
Stand  where  clouds  restore 
Dignity  and  shadow  down  the  forest  aisle. 
Let  me  think   devoutly  how   my   queen   should  look 
awhile. 


Stand  with  stubborn  eyes. 
Droop  your  lips  grown  pale. 

Let  the  frowns  disguise 

Those  devoted  features,  where  the  splendors  fail, 
Daring  while  they  feel  the  rumblings  of  a  tragic  tale. 

In  the  darkness,  faintly 

Bound  with  gleaming  white — 
Roses  deathly,  saintly — 
Still  you  linger,  visible  and  living  quite. 
Still  are  there :  upon  you,  pallid  wreaths ;  around  you, 
night. 

But,  sweet  shade,  who  are  you  ? 

Eyes,  I  know  you  not ; 
Nor  do  know  how  far  you 

Came  from  danger-dreams  or  memories  forgot — 
Came  from  dreams  or  life,  desire,  dead  love,  regret,  or 
what. 


59 


THE    SPLENDID    EARTH 


THE    SPLENDID    EARTH 

THE  gloomy  spirit  of  expiring  day 

Walked  on  the  waters  to  the  purple  hills ; 

Deserted  Heaven  locked  its  portals  gray, 

As  twilight  flowed  through  Fancy's  water-mills. 

Distinctly  on  the  heavy-silver  sky, 

An  eagle,  seemingly  forsaken,  crawled. 

Soft  airs  implored  the  echoes  to  reply, 

And  tinkling  waves  to  one  another  called. 

Its  love  the  heart  relinquished  with  a  sigh 
Unto  the  murmurs  of  the  moving  bay. 

A  magic  ship,  as  daylight  shades  went  by, 
Went  somewhere  too,  on  linen  wings  away. 

That  sigh  which  love  of  beauty  did  impart 

Was  like  the  day's  when  day,  with  tiring  breath, 

And  in  the  arms  of  twilight  and  her  heart, 
Succumbed  alive  in  ecstasies  of  death. 


Splendid 


But,  oh,  ye  lovers  of  complexion  chaste, 

Ye  flashing  hearts  with  idols  fair  and  golden, 

Ye  arms  adoring  Art's  camellia  waist, — 

Your  lives  are  young ;  but  earth  is  young  and  olden. 

Our  planet  reeling  through  the  universe 

Carries  no  more  divinity  than  duty; 
But  man,  through  lifetime  reeling  toward  his  hearse, 

Sings  of  himself  in  terms  of  passing  beauty. 

You  bid  your  masters  of  the  song  to  send 

Their  souls  into  the  stars ;   the  light,  the  chimes, 

The  bliss,  the  perfume  of  the  spheres  to  blend 
Within  the  rapture  of  their  tipsy  rhymes. 

The  poet  lauds  the  rainbow,  when  the  rains 
Have  swilled  the  pools  about  his  murky  feet. 

When  evil  breezes  turn  our  weather-vanes, 
He  gives  his  harp  to  zephyrs  more  discreet. 


64 


Splnrtto  (EattJ 


Some  lowly  prayer  his  tearful  Muse  could  help; 

Assailed  by  shrieks  in  misery  begot, 
He  leaves  the  shanty  and  the  beggar's  whelp 

And  sings  to  angels  who  require  him  not. 

A  lofty  bard  once  tuned  his  instrument 
Below  the  scale;  was  honored  for  his  lays; 

But  was,  when  some  recalled  the  fame  they  lent, 
By  them  disliked  for  taking  too  much  praise. 

Manned  with  a  sweet-haired  Bacchanalian  crew, 

The  ship  of  poetry  blows  gently  on 
To  pleasant  isles  and  mornings  hung  with  dew 

And  blissful  hopes  of  dewier  morns  anon. 

Yet  sunny  flowers,  daytimes  of  delight, 
Virgins  and  Venuses,  desires  remote, 

Wine,  war  and  music,  praises  of  the  night, 
Are  not  the  total  throbs  of  Passion's  throat. 


65 


&plentiiti  (EattJ 


Full  are  her  sobs,  her  melody  as  deep, 

The  aspiration  of  her  song  as  high, 
When  some  uneasy  pauper  goes  to  sleep 

As  when  a  sacred  pageant  passes  by. 

As  pure  the  voice,  though  gloomier  the  note, 

That  sings  of  them  who,  wrapped  in  rotting  rags, 

Befoul  the  streets,  from  shade  to  shadow  float, 
Profusions  of  bent  wretches,  hobbling  hags. 

So  thought  the  twilight  pausing  on  the  pier, 
Even  unwary  how  the  thought  began ; 

Therewith  observed  one,  who  had  ventured  near, 
In  mossy  tatters,  standing  like  a  man. 

He  was  a  man,  soothfast,  for  that  his  jaw 
Was  not  the  joint  of  any  other  kind ; 

There,  too,  his  eyes,  forever  groping,  saw 
No  bottom  in  the  darkness  of  his  mind. 


66 


(Eattfi 


Insipidly,  with  rancid  lips,  he  browsed 
The  sweets  of  evening  air.    From  bed  unclean, 

Him,  some  belated  sunbeam  had  aroused 
To  curse  the  wanton  beauty  of  the  scene. 

What  meaning  have  the  colors  of  the  rose, 
The  width  of  wave  and  all  the  shapes  of  cloud, 

Around  the  groveling  of  such  as  those 
Who  are  the  poisons  in  the  mixing  crowd  ? 

No  self-excited  poem  with  a  crown 

That  makes  it  queenliest  of  the  vanished  years, 
Can,  with  soft  ringers,  loosen  Sorrow's  gown 

Or  make  the  heart  of  Pity  bulge  with  tears. 

The  sandal  woods  and  musks  of  sentiment, 

Grotesque  inaccuracies  of  desire, 
Supernal  praise  of  sub'ter-brutish  bent, 

Can  vaunt,  but  move  no  angel  to  admire. 


67 


CEartJ 


From  human  misery  there  winds  a  strain : 

Like  spiral  or  like  spirit  it  can  touch 
And  feel  the  finer  forms  who  know  its  pain, 

Its  grief  divine,  its  beauty  lacking  much. 

No  lust  can,  like  a  sinner  uncaressed, 

Sail  with  the  soul  upon  a  fall  of  tears. 
The  little  thorn  that  pricked  a  maiden's  breast, 

More  than  the  park  of  roses  pink,  endears. 

Still  on  the  wharf  the  rogue  perused  the  waves, 

Shifted  his  wracking  skeleton  awry, 
And  read  the  rolling  headstones  of  their  graves 

Who  yet  below  the  half-seen  grasses  lie. 

His  lifelong  woe  gazed  on  the  water's  woe, 

And  haply  thought,  should  he  fall  from  the  shore, 

His  grief  would  melt  with  all  the  seas  that  flow, 
Nor  make  the  burden  of  the  ocean  more. 


68 


He  was  not  sanctified  by  heavens  gray; 

For  him  no  mate  or  friend  of  hand  came  home; 
His  breast  ne'er  moved  with  what  he  could  not  say 

Of  marble  or  medallion  out  of  Rome. 

Love  could  not  lure,  nor  danger  make  him  bold, 
Nor  music  still  his  hunger  with  refrains ; 

No  trees  of  twisted  emerald  and  gold 

Could  press  the  stupors  in  his  leaden  veins. 

The  light  on  heaven  or  the  shaking  tree, 

Cathedrals  dark  with  ivy  of  the  ages, 
The  swoons  of  love,  exertions  of  the  sea, 

Were  not  the  pictures  of  his  inner  pages. 

He  stares  upon  the  nectars  of  the  bay, 
And  it  becomes  thereat  a  poison-bath ; 

Leans  out  and  stares  and  breathes  and  moves  away 
And  stares  but  sees  no  vision  in  his  path. 


Not  lifelike  is  he,  but  is  yet  alive ; 

The  laws  of  God  are  asking-  for  his  death. 
With  each  drawn  air  his  lips  and  eyes  revive; 

His  life  is  but  the  wagging  of  his  breath. 

No  hindrance  give  unto  his  leaving  feet, 

Nor  make  philosophy  upon  his  trail. 
When  he  is  gone  the  day  will  be  complete 

And  baby  stars  play  over  twilight  pale. 

So  too  may  pass  the  glamour  of  a  song 

That  calls  for  revelry  where  mourners  dwell, 

And  seem,  like  that  poor  mortal  thing  gone  wrong, 
A  mildewed  statue  groping  back  to  Hell. 


70 


SHORTER   POEMS 


YEARS 

In  wayward  forgetfulness  only, 

One  night  when  the  winds  were  fast, 

I  unlocked  an  old  cellar,  where,  sadly, 
I  rummaged  the  trunks  of  the  past. 

I  found  many  things  of  no  value, 

Many  things  that  I  should  not  have  kept ; 

But  I  found  the  veil  of  a  woman, 
And  found  I  had  heedlessly  wept. 

Not  for  those  who  might  question  or  judge  me, 

Nor  for  any  to  understand, 
Nor  for  any  to  read  and  to  love  me, 

Nor  for  any  to  reprimand, 

But  for  me  and  the  sake  of  a  memory 
Of  her  for  whose  heart  I  once  planned, 

I  trailed  the  black  wine  o  'er  the  parchment, 
And  wrote  in  a  desolate  hand : 


73 


We  were  lost  in  a  sorrow  peculiar, 

In  the  streets  of  a  city  of  woe ; 
And  we  walked  up  the  hills  to  the  starlight, 

And  my  heart  was  a  wandering  woe. 

We  strayed  by  a  lighted  cathedral, 

Whose  windows  were  painted  and  long. 

1  loved  all  the  saints  on  the  windows, 
But  my  heart  knew  a  saintlier  song. 

I  was  youthful  and  mad  and  desirous, 

At  the  perilous  age  of  a  boy, 
When  he  feels  the  first  man  in  his  bosom 

And  his  heart  is  a  clangor  of  joy. 

And  while  all  of  the  bells  in  his  bosom 
Are  ringing,  he  does  not  know 

That  through  all  of  his  heaven  the  rapture 
Is  rung  by  the  weight  of  his  woe. 


74 


Seat* 


And  she  was  the  older  and  wiser, 

And  she  looked  when  she  would  not  say — 
Looked  low  in  the  heavens  with  languor 

Of  eyes  that  were  shaded  and  gray. 

And  we  said  our  conspiracy  lowly, 
While  all  of  the  stars  were  in  tune, 

As  they  flashed  the  soft  news  of  our  loving 
To  the  eyes  of  the  curious  moon. 

I  was  lost  in  my  heroine's  tresses 

Festooned  on  her  forehead  with  grace ; 

Yet,  leaving  the  shade  of  the  tresses, 
Was  perplexed  by  the  light  on  her  face. 

Then  a  mist  lowered  sadly  around  us, 
With  the  luster  of  stars  in  the  air, 

And  settled  like  stars  on  her  tresses, 
Or  clusters  of  grapes  on  her  hair 


75 


I  feared  we  might  come,  even  slowly, 

To  the  end  of  our  walk  too  soon 
To  fill  my  delight  with  the  beauty 

Of  her  hands  that  were  white  as  the  moon. 

We  passed  by  the  umbrage  of  branches, 

And  over  my  wishes  there  stole 
The  sanctified  odor  of  jasmine 

As  the  jasmine  discovered  my  soul. 

The  scent  of  the  jasmine  went  upward 

To  mix  with  the  magic  of  June, 
And  an  innocent  cloud  became  drunken 

And  reeled  from  the  arms  of  the  moon. 

Then  we  stopped,  for  the  moon  seemed  unconscious, 
Like  a  corpse  that  was  floating  in  light, 

With  its  necklace  of  pearls  trailing  earthward — 
Or  a  lily  afloat  on  the  night. 


76 


gear* 


Bewildered,  we  turned,  and  she,  sighing, 
Beheld  me  with  glimmering  eyes ; 

For,  though  wrapped  in  the  raiment  of  fashion, 
She  was  human  as  deep  as  her  sighs. 

In  a  moment,  the  million  stars  flickered, 
Their  places  were  sooty  and  still. 

A  tempestuous  current  had  whirled  them 
From  their  places  now  somber  and  chill. 

That  heavenly  anarchy  frightened 
The  earth  and  my  tremulous  bride. 

When  I  looked  for  her  features,  they  vanished, 
And  the  night  airs  remained  by  my  side. 

What  use  to  describe  the  black  tragedy 
That  perhaps  was  not  meant  for  tears  ? 

The  crime  of  our  parting  was  Nature's ; 
And  the  criminal  instrument,  years. 


77 


It  may  have  been  death  or  divergence 
That  solicits  me  now  for  these  tears. 

Yet  it  seems  that  the  only  disaster 
That  caused  her  departure,  was  years. 


78 


THE    LIPS    OF   EVOLUTION 

What  is  that  color  on  your  lips  revealing 
Itself  ?    T  is  red,  if  I  know  red.    But  red 
Is  only  color.    What  quick  fiend  was  dealing 
With  your  emotions  when  those  tints  o'  erspread 
Your  pretty  lips  like  robins  coming  to  be  fed? 

Why  should  your  blood  with  all  its  meaning  blush  ? — 
When  your  wild  nature  Science  has  defended 
And  says  that,  foot  for  hoof  and  tooth  for  tush, 
And  your  slim  waist  of  bulky  flanks  amended, 
You  are,  with  modern  brutes,   from  ancient  things 
descended. 

And  women  who  are  proud  within  their  homes 
Can  argue  more  but  prove  not  one  cur  less 
Behind  them,  of  the  yelping  pack  that  roams 
Through  their  ancestral  shades,  while  we  caress 
The  lithe  and  hairless  arm  half-draped  in  modern  dress. 


79 


Eip0  of  evolution 


Of  lives  long  since  devoured  we  cnew  the  cud, 
I  know.    But  wliere  have  you  the  beast's  remains  ? 
The  baggage  of  what  brute  is  in  your  blood 
And  borne  along  the  railway  of  your  veins, 
That  you  should  have  the  blush  that  to  your  lip  attains  ? 

Is  that  swift  color  on  your  lips  a  sin  ? 
Or  is  it  kindly  put  there  for  my  part — 
A  red  light  signaling  the  wrecks  within, 
Or  just  a  business  of  the  sweets  that  start 
And  travel  outward  from  the  depot  of  your  heart  ? 

There  may  be  some  vile  evidence  on  you 
Which  Time  has  not  Been  able  to  dispel. 
But  when  to  your  teased  lips  the  tincture  flew, 
No  scientist  with  playmate  lips  could  tell 
We  rose  from  howling  beasts  or  all  from  angels  fell. 


80 


FAITH 

Forgetful  child  of  all-remembering  Death, 

Where  is  the  comrade  of  the  little  tryst, 

Your  life  ?    Are  you  contentedly  assured 

The  soul  of  you  will  blush  again  when  you 

Are  deep  in  death,  that  you  should  make  of  life 

A  cemetery  of  unsocial  neighbors  ? 

A  silent  soul  is  reaching  for  your  hand ; 

And  you  are  waiting  for  his  hand  to  hold 

Upon  your  heart,  and  nominate  him  friend ; 

To  do  so  with  no  tremor  of  suspicion 

Or  cynical  reserve.    While  crabbed  Death 

Is  busy  with  accounts  and  scrutinizes 

Our  lives,  that  none  may  linger  very  long 

To  his  foul  credit  overdue,  oh  you, 

To  whom,  by  grace  of  loving  accident, 

Is  given  here  a  snatch  of  years,  half  bad 

Before  enjoyed — how  often  have  you  flung 

Both  arms  about  your  shrine,  with  sentiment? — 

And  said :  I  do  believe  in  this  and,  with  it, 

My  faith  will,  cheek  to  cheek,  engage,  and  here 


Si 


JFaitJ 


I  shall  not  shame  to  weep  the  wines  of  love 
Crushed  from  the  snowy  grapes  of  all  that  I 
Think  best  in  me. 

Who  has  not  vainly  wished  for  things  possessed 
In  him  ?    Who  sees  no  mountains  in  his  soul 
Unclimbed  by  his  own  limbs  ?    What  lips  have  not 
Demanded  more  than  they  have  given,  knowing 
Not  why?    Does  any  trembling  heart  know  why 
Its  longing  is  unfilled  ?    Or  make  itself 
An  humble  bridge  whereon  another  heart 
May  venture  ?    Say,  if,  answering,  some  heart 
Should  howl  a  No  from  here  to  the  round  moon, 
Would  that  long  word  not  be  the  silver  truth  ? 

Each  man  withholds  some  measure  of  his  love : 
Leaves  one  branch  of  the  chandelier  unlit : 
One  room  within  the  mansion  leaves  unfurnished : 
The  poet  does  not  tell  of  all  he  knows : 
The  singer  keeps  the  sweetest  song  unsung: 
Virtue  will  not  uncover  Beauty's  bosom : 
For  all  withhold  their  best.    At  the  cold  bottom 


82 


Of  the  heart's  deepest  well,  there  lies  a  drop 
Of  blood — a  lovelier  and  redder  drop 
Than  ever  drawn  with  buckets  of  mistrust. 
All-conquering  faith  can  get  this  love's  best  drop, 
And  faith  is  in  your  own  drop  of  this  kind, 
That  each  with  each  full  willing  to  exchange 
And  each  of  each  demanding  to  be  given, 
And  each  to  each  refusing  to  begin, — 
The  drop  lies  cold,  and  curdles  with  old  age. 
We  are  afraid  to  love  too  hard.    We  fear 
Devotion  may  provoke  the  other's  pride. 
Some  woman,  stern  betwixt  a  coronet 
And  throne,  may  take  our  simple  courtesy 
With  regal  eye.    Some  frail  bisque  maid 
May  take  our  passion's  best  in  coquetry ; 
Or  Selfishness  make  hay  beneath  our  sun. 
So  fails  the  force  of  love.    There  is  no  soul 
Whose  crystal  has  no  spot  of  jealousy : 
Whose  lovelight  has  no  blemish  of  suspicion. 
So,  too,  no  woman  loves  with  lyric  passion 
The  chanting  heart  unharmonized  with  doubt. 


JfaitJ 


But  were  there  faith,  and  faith  of  such  a  kind 
As  Heaven  favors  and  the  Fates  applaud, 
A  faith  clear  as  the  love  it  asks,  the  Owner 
Could  use  it  as  a  starry  wand.    He  could 
Enslave  the  hands  wherever  he  should  fancy 
To  drop  upon  his  knee.    For  such  is  faith. 


.     HALF-PAST    ELEVEN 

Discussing  love  and  friendship,  late  at  night, 
We  sat  beyond  the  lamp,  whose  covered  light 

Tinged  us  more  tenderly  than  clearly. 

Her  eyes  demure  on  mine  shone  dearly, 
.For  her  emotion  made  them  damp  and  bright. 

As  deviously  as  the  bees  in  flight, 
We  stole  the  sweetest  thought  from  every  height, 
For  we  were  not  in  love,  but  merely 
Discussing  love  and  friendship. 

Not  many  days  in  Time's  ambrosial  sight 
Our  voices  had  been  mixing.    Such  our  plight, 

Though  loving  not,  knew  not  how  nearly 

While  sadly,  idly,  but  sincerely 
Discussing  love  and  friendship. 


BALLADE    OF   THE    NATURAL   HEART 

To  me  it  seems  a  glory  to  excel 

Where  nature  placed  the  honor  long  ago. 
And  I  prefer  the  nut  with  hardest  shell. 

The  bread  I  eat  I  ask  be  made  of  dough. 

The  purest  white  is  all  I  ask  of  snow. 
And  diamonds  I  ask  in  all  my  rings. 

All  honor  to  the  rivers  when  they  flow ! 
I  claim  the  real,  old,  rigid  rule  of  things. 

When  all  is  duly  done,  I  feel  quite  well. 

Therefore  I  like  my  wagon-wheels  to  go. 
Lines  may  be  straight  and  not  be  parallel. 

I  want  my  oars  about  me  when  I  row. 

Indeed,  I  yearn  to  pay  the  debts  I  owe. 
And  I  respect  the  little  bee  that  stings, 

Aspiring  not  to  say  "  Yes/'  meaning  "  No." 
I  claim  the  real,  old,  rigid  rule  of  things. 


86 


Balla&t  of  tfje  Natural  l?cart 


I  wish  to  say  "Ah !  "  when  a  rose  I  smell ; 

And  when  I  make  my  finger  bleed,  scream  "  Oh !  " 
For  what  is  pain  without  the  right  to  yell  ? 

Why  have  I  tears  if  not  to  wet  my  woe? 

I  like  all  things  to  do  the  best  they  know, 
If  but  a  leech  and  faithfully  it  clings. 

There  's  beauty  in  the  peacock  and  the  crow. 
I  claim  the  real,  old,  rigid  rule  of  things. 

ENVOY. 

Prince,  bring  me  not  bouquets  where  flowers  grow. 

On  beggars  I  want  rags ;  crowns  on  my  kings. 
I  love  to  see  the  peasant  use  his  hoe. 

I  claim  the  real,  old,  rigid  rule  of  things. 


87 


ONE    OF    THE    WICKED 

At  a  ghastly  flame,  where  the  coals  were  gold, 

He  tempered  his  dull-red  heart. 
With  a  grisly  hold  on  his  heart,  he  sold 

Its  blood  for  his  leading  part. 

He  gave  his  heart  for  these  golden  coals, 

And  he  gave  without  a  groan. 
He  filled  up  holes  with  other  men's  souls 

And  rammed  them  down  with  his  own. 

He  fed  the  fat  of  his  friends  with  fat, 
And  they  drank  of  his  foaming  wine. 

A  child  he  begat,  and  he  buried  the  brat 
When  his  sins  were  ready  to  dine. 


of  t&e 


But  he  starved  the  bones  of  his  men  who  dug 
His  wealth  from  the  Poor  Man's  hand ; 

While  many  his  thug  Death  snatched  for  a  plug 
For  the  graves  of  the  Rich  Man's  land. 

The  hunger  of  mothers  he  took  for  a  jest ; 

He  laughed  when  the  Poor  Man  cried. 
During  life  he  was  blessed  with  a  wealth  of  the  best ; 

But  they  damned  him  when  he  died. 


89 


MADELINE 

Madeline,  maiden  of  dreams, 
Pale  is  the  face  of  the  moon, 

What  dost  thou  think  of  its  beams  ? 

What  is  that  message  that  seems 
Music  of  mystical  tune  ? 

Phantoms  and  pearls  from  its  gleams 
Over  the  garden  are  strewn — 
Pearls  in  thy  moonlight  of  June, 

Madeline. 

Maiden, — with  many  weird  themes 
Moonlight  in  summer  night  teems. 

Out  of  this  moonlight  are  hewn 
Bodies  of  intricate  schemes, 

Dreams  that  thou  dreamest  too  soon, 

Madeline. 


90 


THE    SUICIDE 

She  seems  a  form  created  for  the  bards. 

Low  is  her  brow,  but  high  the  well-kept  hair. 
With  saintly  eyes  that  know  the  Devil's  cards, 

She  gazes  in  a  glass ;  and,  half  aware 

Of  her  reflection,  watching  dimly  there, 
She  sees  her  death;   but  death  she  disregards. 

Light  as  a  swan,  she  moves,  that  even  air 
The  gentle  motion  of  her  frame  retards. 
She  opens  now  a  case;  consults  a  dial, 

And  satisfies  herself  it  is  the  time. 
Out  of  a  drawer  takes  a  poison-vial, 

Without  a  sigh  or  omen  of  the  crime. 
For  she  was  one  who  lit  her  lamp  at  noon 
And  loved  the  daylight  of  an  evil  moon. 


METEMPSYCHOSIS 

When  I  was  duchess  of  a  rich  domain 

And  you,  a  powdered  page  below  my  throne — 
When  I,  a  cloud,  across  the  sky  was  blown, 

And  you  were  lover  in  a  garden  lane — 

When  I  was  queen  and  you,  within  my  reign, 
Were  supplicant  with  plaint  of  humble  tone — 
When  I  a  willow  was,  by  river  grown, 

And  you,  a  fish,  did  in  my  shade  remain, 

You  sometimes  upward  looked  and  you  seemed  grateful 
To  me  who  stretched  the  favor  o  'er  your  head. 

I  saw  no  glance  of  anger  fierce  and  hateful 
Upon  your  brow  to  civil  manner  bred. 

Now  I,  a  fish,  you  ply  me  with  a  hook 

Caught  in  my  mouth,  and  wrench  me  from  my  brook. 


92 


THE    HEART'S    ELECTION 

If  your  heart's  government  were  made  by  vote, 
And  voters  were  the  crowding  drops  of  blood, 

Each  with  a  willful  franchise  to  denote 
The  ruler  of  thyself,  as  fast  they  scud 
Upon  the  pulse,  how  would  the  blushing  flood 

The  nomination  of  my  suit  promote  ? 

Would  they  elect  my  name  with  every  thud 
Of  the  exulting  heart?    Or  would  they  float 

Sometimes  dividedly,  with  other  names — 

Some  drops  for  me  and  some  for  my  rejection? 

Oh,  tell  me  they  will  rush  with  loud  acclaims 
And  make  me  hero  of  their  red  election. 

Tell  me  their  vote  is,  and  their  animus, 

With  every  beat,  for  me  unanimous. 


93 


HER    BEAUTY 

The  substance  of  her  beauty !    Can  I  tell  ? 

Shall  I  describe  a  thing  without  a  name  ? 

The  most  religious  words  I  have  would  maim 
Her  elegance,  that  shone  forth  to  dispel 
The  airs  before,  as  music  from  a  bell. 

Her  beauty  was  the  tenure  of  a  frame 

Soft  as  the  drooping-tulip ;  't  was  the  claim 
That  earth  makes  now  and  then  for  those  who  dwell 
Beneath  the  circuit  of  the  sun's  reflection, 

That  they  may  gaze  upon  a  human  psalm 
And  call  the  music  of  its  form  perfection. 

Her  beauty  was  devout ;  and,  though  't  was  calm. 
'T  was  almost  audible ;   but  low.     And  she 
Walked  o  'er  the  earth  as  in  a  minor  key. 


94 


r 


UNIVERSITY 


SORROW 

Nine  webs  of  straggling  rivers  wrap  our  earth 
And,  with  intent  the  oceans  to  dilute, 
Their  frayed  ends  to  the  oceans  contribute. 

But  their  few  glossy  ripples  are  the  mirth 

Of  foam-besprent  Old  Ocean.  Nothing  worth 
Are  their  few  quarts,  and  nothing  constitute 
Their  wholesome  pourings,  though  they  prosecute 

The  rotund  ocean  from  its  poles  to  girth. 

So  do  the  streams  of  joy  around  me  pour, 
Endeavoring  my  sorrow  to  abate, 

That,  like  the  ocean,  is  too  salt  a  shore, 
To  sweeten  with  such  mild  adulterate ; 

But  takes  the  many  rivers  for  its  fare 

And  still  is  green  and  bitter  everywhere. 


95 


TO    A    WITTY    LADY 

You  are  not  beautiful.    Unlike  the  spring, 

You  come  not  wrapped  in  flowers  pink  and  sunny. 

Sometimes,  alas,  on  mortgages  and  money 
Your  thoughts  embrace — and  many  a  bonded  thing. 
And  zounds,  great  dame !  your  lofty  wit  doth  wring 

The  noses  of  all  men  and  make  us  funny. 
Sometimes  your  language  savors  of  sweet  honey ; 
Sometimes  your  honey  savors  of  a  sting. 
And  yet,  I  'd  ask  it  all :   your  rapid-firing  eyes, 

Your  hasty  brain,  your  heart  well-timed  and  slow, 
Your  lips,  where  satire  sits  and  fancy  lies, 

Your  hair  piled  up  on  many  pins  below, — 
But  that  I  fear  your  sin  your  wit  provokes 
To  make  my  sins  pincushions  for  your  jokes. 


THE    FLEETING   DEER 

Prithee,  why  run  before  me,  foolish  deer? 

Gone  on  your  limbs  full  strong  though  seeming  frail, 
And  hoofs  with  hoofs  contending  in  your  fear, 

You  dash  into  the  distance  and  thence  fail 

From  weary  sight.    Amazement,  in  your  trail, 
Knows  not  how  far  what  lately  was  so  near. 

Timidly  as  a  virgin  takes  the  veil, 
You  take  the  valley  in  your  fright  sincere. 
I  did  not  mean  to  frighten  you  from  play, 

Nor  harm  you,  zephyr-limbed  one.    Why  abhor 
Me?    Have  you  seen  me  ever ?    Why  away 

Before  me,  whom  you  ne'er  looked  on  before? 
Is  't  through  your  ancestors  some  hunter's  yell 
Remembering,  you  fear  all  men  ?    Farewell ! 


97 


THE    INTRUDING    MEMORY 

What !    Comest  thou  again,  O  memory  vile  ? 

'T  was  thou  that  shot'st  across  my  troubled  thought. 
Wherefore  again  to  flit  and  ban  awhile 

Along  these  rooky  timbers  ?    No  wish  brought 

Thee  here.    What  art  thou  in  my  castle  caught  ? 
If  ghost,  begone ;  depart  thee  many  a  mile. 

If  healthy  thing,  be  feared  to  stay  for  naught. 
I  let  thee  weep,  but  sanction  not  thy  smile. 
Listen !  and,  while  my  frightened  heart  I  prop, 

Depart,  and  ever  from  this  realm  abstain. 
Unbreathing  substance,  from  my  eyelids  drop, 

Find  thy  way  out ;  grope  not  about  my  brain. 
Begone,  with  all  the  agonies  that  ail  thee, 
Or,  ghastly  shape,  I  banish,  I  exhale  thee. 


98 


GUILTLESS 

If  there  were  twenty  suns  upon  the  sky, 
Yea,  more,  and  millions  more;   in  sooth,  were  there 
As  many  suns  as  stars,  all  plastered  where 
The  lonesome  discus  now  outstares  the  eye, 
And  could  our  human  sight  the  blaze  defy 
And  look  upon  the  incandescent  air 
As  now  we  see  beneath  the  single  glare 
Of  what  we  have  there  shining, — then  would  I,— 
Then  would  I  fling  my  heart  into  the  light 

And,  being  there,  would  say  to  ye  around : 
Read  ye  the  crime :  declaim  the  wrong  and  right, 

Wherever  right  be  seen  or  wrong  be  found. 
And  if  the  sight  a  single  crime  reveals, 
Crush  ye  the  heart  beneath  your  vengeful  heels. 


99 


TO    MY    INK-WELL 

Thou  blotty  bottle,  bottle  stained  and  grim, 

Thou  imp,  thou  gnome,  a  moody  friend  art  thou. 
And  yet  thyself  I  would  not  trade,  I  vow, 

For  golden  ink-decanter  with  a  rim 

Of  pearls  and  decorations  wreathed  and  slim. 
Now  tell  me,  ugly  boy  with  inky  brow, 
Of  some  unwritten  thoughts,  which  you  allow 

To  dream  awhile  within  your  tranquil  brim. 

How  many  black  imaginings  are  there 
Waiting  to  crawl  out  for  my  livelihood  ? 

Phantasmas,  whims,  a  poet's  morbid  ware, 

Capricious  thoughts,  perhaps  misunderstood? — 

All  liquid  yet  and  blended  in  their  well ; 

Some  will  be  born ;  how  many,  who  can  tell  ? 


100 


TO   A    CERTAIN    POET 

The  sow,  her  snout  upheaving  from  the  mire, 

Can  smell  the  approaching  breeze.    'T  is  well !    But 

whose 
And  where  's  the  fiery  nostril  can  acquire 

Opinion  of  the  future? — if  its  news 

Ever  blows  out  beforetimes  to  amuse 
Or  make  a  disappointment  of  desire. 

How  fares  his  fame  with  famous  retinues  ? 
Will  it  on  wings  of  purple  flame  aspire  ? 
An  illustration  of  the  heaven  its  fire  ? 

Or  weary  sparkle,  crawling  like  a  fuse  ? 
How  will  the  minions  of  the  Mint  admire 

What  does  the  color  of  their  gold  accuse  ? 

And,  each  to  each's  liking,  will  it  use 

Astronomers  to  stare  or  bugs  peruse  ? 


101 


THE    FABLE 

They  told  me  it  is  fable ;  that  it  blew 

With  uncredentialed  winds  from  olden  time. 
Still  seemed  it  that,  with  sentiment  sublime, 

This  fiction  made  the  truthful  seem  untrue. 

They  said  it  is  a  shadow  of  the  few 
Left  by  a  fervid  sun  in  fervid  clime — 
The  sun  of  myth  is  censured  with  the  crime, 

When  leaving  us,  of  leaving  shadows  too. 

Long  was  the  night  when,  to  the  night's  long  woe, 
This  tale  came  up  the  back-stairs  of  my  heart. 

It  would  not  answer  questions,  nor  would  go ; 
And  I  would  not  command  it  to  depart. 

I  will  not  with  the  clever  crowds  applaud 

Who  question  beauty  while  they  deal  in  fraud. 


102 


TO    THEE 

Sweetheart,  my  lips  with  lyrics  do  not  flow ; 

But  hark,  thou,  to  the  grief-imprisoned  song; 
Forgive  the  mute  camellia  for  its  woe. 

With  weighty  passions,  quick  words  do  not  go ; 
Great  love  is  like  a  silence,  grim  and  strong ; 
Sweetheart,  my  lips  with  lyrics  do  not  flow. 

About  my  gloomy  head  thy  light  arms  throw ; 

Bear  with  the  frowns  that  to  my  love  belong; 
Forgive  the  mute  camellia  for  its  woe. 

On  my  heart  pattereth  my  love,  like  snow, 

That  works  no  sound  upon  a  belfry's  gong. 
Sweetheart,  my  lips  with  lyrics  do  not  flow. 


103 


Forgive  these  lips  that  when  they  speak,  speak  low : 
They  do  not  charge  the  guilty  earth  with  wrong. 
Forgive  the  mute  camellia  for  its  woe. 

I  and  that  flower  smile  not  to  and  fro. 

Find  us  not  in  the  jewels  of  the  throng. 
Forgive  the  mute  camellia  for  its  woe ; 
Sweetheart,  my  lips  with  lyrics  do  not  flow. 


104 


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"The  ideal  of  the  poet  seems  not  to  have  been  the  Greek  con 
ception  of  the  high-heroic  temper  of  Herakles  in  his  encounter 
with  the  lion  of  Kithairon,  or  the  weaponless  Polydamos  meeting 
with  physical  prowess  the  lion  of  Mount  Olympus.  The  book 
illustrates  the  pitiful  picture  of  want  and  fear  in  the  presence  of 
force.  It  is  famishing  poverty  at  the  gate  of  need,  while  the  sup 
pliant  imposes  on  himself  the  hard  discipline  of  overcoming  fear 
by  the  strength  of  the  spirit.  The  author  has  learned  much  of 
the  stalwart  use  of  words,  and  has  used  them  to  express  psychologi 
cal  suggestions,  although  he  uses  rhyme  with  a  reckless  opulence 
of  curiously  erratic  method." — The  Los  Angeles  Times. 

"A  poem  of  which  the  theme  is  the  gradual,  physical  and  men 
tal  exhaustion  of  a  man  in  the  presence  of  fear.  It  descants  on 
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no  doubt  of  its  earnestness  or  its  strength,  but  it  is  rough  and  even 
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— Louisville  Courier- Journal. 

"It  is  a  pity  that  space  lacks  in  which  to  quote  from  these 
verses.  They  frequently  touch  a  profundity  of  pathos  hardly  to  be 
described." — Ne*w  Orleans  Picayune. 

A.  M.  Robertson  :  :  San  Francisco 


"California   Violets 

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Many  of  these  verses  have  already  appeared  in  vari 
ous  periodicals  and  have  been  so  well  received  that  it 
is  thought  advisable  to  publish  them  in  this  permanent 
form.  Although  the  verses  are  mostly  in  the  minor 
key,  and  contain  the  pathos  that  comes  straight  from 
a  heart  that  has  felt  great  sorrow,  there  is  sunshine 
illumining  every  page. 

A.  M.  Robertson  :  :  San  Francisco 


"The  Dead  Calypso 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 


BY 

Louis  A.   ROBERTSON 


Five  hundred  copies  printed,  and  type  distributed,      izmo.      Cloth. 


Price,  $l.JO  net 


1  *  His  verses  show  the  hand  of  a  man  of  great  literary 
attainments;  a  man  whose  mentality  has  been  culti 
vated  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  yet  whose  soul  is,  and 
ever  has  been,  the  soul  of  a  born  poet.  In  expression 
and  form  Mr.  Robertson's  verses  are  in  themselves 
perfect;  yet  this  mechanical  excellence,  if  we  may  so 
express  it,  attracts  no  attention  to  itself.  The  lines 
run  so  smoothly  and  the  thoughts  are  so  beautifully  ex 
pressed  that  it  is  the  intent  of  the  poetry  and  not  its 
form  that  makes  the  lasting  impression  on  the  reader's 
mind." — The  Call,  San  Francisco. 

"The  book  has  fire  and  grit  in  it.  It  has  also  much 
tenderness  and  sadness.  It  runs  the  gamut  from  the 
most  spiritual  aspiration  to  the  rage  of  desire  defeated 
in  satiation.  In  the  matter  of  form  all  the  verses  are 
exquisitely  done.  In  the  matter  of  feeling  the  in 
tensity  is  poignant.  Always  the  song  has  color  to  it, 
has  blood  and  bone  and  flesh  and  soul  woven  through 
it.  Mr.  Robertson  is  a  lover  of  the  sonnet  and  his 
book  contains  a  dozen  poems  in  that  form  that  are  of 
exquisite  workmanship." — The  St.  Louis  Mirror. 

A.    M.    Robertson  :  :  San   Francisco 


"Songs  from  Bohemia'"' 


BY 

DANIEL  O'CONNELL 


Edited  by  Ina  D.  Coolbrith,  with  a  biographical  sketch 
by  William  Greer  Harrison 

One  thousand  copies  printed  and  type  distributed. 
I2mo.      Bound  in  gray  boards. 


Price,  $1.50  net 


"All  lovers  of  good  fellowship  will  enjoy  the  collec 
tion  of  poems  published  under  the  title  'Songs  from 
Bohemia,'  for  in  the  author,  Daniel  O'Connell,  they 
will  find  a  kindred  soul.  Not  the  least  interesting 
part  of  the  book  is  the  biographical  sketch  of  O'Con- 
nell  by  William  Greer  Harrison,  which  precedes  the 
verses.  Love  of  nature  and  love  of  life  radiate  from 
the  pen  of  one  who  drank  deeply  of  both.  The  verses 
embody  gladsome  lightness,  tender  regret,  quiet  happi 
ness  and  resignation." — The  Boston  Times. 

"His  poems  are  of  surprising  quality,  and  fill  one 
with  shame  that  he  knows  so  little  of  the  poet,  and 
with  wonder  that  the  latter  is  not  more  of  a  familiar 
figure  in  American  letters.  That  he  is  no  mere 
versifier  is  evident  from  every  page." 

—  The   Chicago   Record-Herald. 

A.  M.   Robertson  :  San  Francisco 


"Idyls  of  El  Dorado" 

BY 

CHARLES    KEELER 


Decorated  with  designs  from  the  California  wild  flowers 
by  Louise  Keeler. 

l6mo.      Bound  in  art  boards.      Limited  edition. 


Price,   -  $1.25 


"They  make  tasteful  books  in  San  Francisco.  « Idyls  of  El 
Dorado,'  by  Charles  Keeler,  with  its  rubricated  title-page,  artistic 
tail- pieces,  and  Japanesque  cover-design  is  a  fit  setting  for  any  poet's 
rhymes.  Mr.  Keeler  is  deeply  penetrated  by  the  myths  of  his 
adopted  land  and  that  strange  spell  she  lays  even  upon  the  alien 
spirit."  —  The  Milwaukee  Sentinel. 

"  Mr.  Charles  Keeler  celebrates  the  grandeur  and  loveliness  of 
his  surroundings.  He  sings  to  the  ocean  and  the  redwood-tree,  to 
the  Alaskan  glacier  and  the  canyon  severing  the  hill,  to  the  dove 
mourning  and  the  flower  found  in  the  woods."  —  The  Neiv  Tork 
Sun. 

"Mr.  Keeler's  verses  have  the  real  swing  and  rush  indicating  a 
fullness  and  richness  of  thought  sometimes  difficult  to  limit  and 
condense  by  the  rules  of  rhyme." —  The  Outlook. 


A.   M.    Robertson  :  :  San  Francisco 


"A  Season's  Sowing 

BY 

CHARLES    KEELER 

Decorated  by  Louise  Keeler. 
Thin  octavo.       Bound  in  ornamental  boards. 


Price,  -  $1.23 


"From  far-off  California  comes  a  notable  piece  of  ornamental 
printing  in  'A  Season's  Sowing.'  'Together  have  we  toiled  for 
beauty's  sake,'  says  the  dedication,  'and  all  our  labor  has  not  been 
in  vain.'  It  is  by  no  means  in  vain." — The  Philadelphia  Times. 

"The  taste,  the  artistic  sense  and  skill,  the  mechanical  handi 
work  embodied  in  this  little  book  equal  the  best  fruits  of  English 
education.  Nothing  better  of  its  kind  has  appeared  within  our 
knowledge  this  season,  and  San  Francisco  may  put  another  feather 
in  its  publishing  cap." — The  Literary  World,  Boston. 

"  Mr.  Charles  Keeler  is  a  lover  of  Nature,  and  in  the  cheery 
bits  of  song  so  quaintly  framed  in  these  decorated  pages  he  gives 
delicate  expression  to  many  a  conceit  suggested  by  birds,  trees, 
plants,  flowers,  and  the  play  of  sun  and  weather." — The  Independ 
ent^  New  York. 

"The  designs  are  beautiful  and  striking.  The  verses,  too,  are 
delightfully  original.  Each  poem  is  only  a  paragraph  long,  and 
with  few  exceptions  each  verse  is  a  gem  of  thought.  Some  of  the 
poems  are  brief  epigrams  expressed  in  verse.  It  is  seldom  that  so 
much  wit  is  embodied  in  verses  that  wear  so  uniformly  serious  an 
aspect."  —  The  Beacon ,  Boston. 

"Each  of  the  short  poems  expresses  a  single  thought,  sometimes 
a  bit  of  homely  wisdom,  quaintly  worded,  sometimes  a  jubilant 
assertion  of  the  wider  faith  and  its  triumph.  Many  are  calls  for 
truer  courage  and  self-reliance,  and  express  a  firm  assurance  in  the 
possibilities  opened  to  the  strong,  aspiring  soul." — The  Christian 
Register,  Boston. 


A.   M.    Robertson  •  :  San  Francisco 


YB   I  1 972 


